


Supernatural Games

by carryonmywaywardcas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/F, F/M, Fallen Castiel, Inspired by The Hunger Games, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonmywaywardcas/pseuds/carryonmywaywardcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universe has taken a wild turn to destruction. Anybody is eligible for the Supernatural Games, and I mean anyone. Hell, a toddler was in it once! My name is Dean Winchester, and I am in the Supernatural Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductory

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea from somebody on this site, I can't remember who. So, if you know I bookmarked your story like this, that would be you~! Just contact me if you wanna co-author or me be co-author, I don't care.

Dry. The air is dry as I breathe in. It almost burns my lungs at the breath, almost like a flame that started in my stomach, and the smoke travelled to lungs. District Twelve was almost always like this. Dry air, fires, and homeless men travelling the streets. When you look out the window, the District is in plain agony, and you could tell, too. The dry air effects everybody, especially my brother and I. My brother was born with horrible asthma, so I've had to take care of him through all of his asthma attacks. Once a week, maybe? Dry air, like I said, it effects everybody.

  
My name has been put in too many times, and so has Sam. We both protect eachother, but we both get caught. Fifty-nine for me, and thirty for my brother, Sam. Seventy-nine for The Winchesters, always a lot every year. It's always in the fifty to one-hundered mark, every single year. We've never gotten picked, ever. Well, actually, that's a lie. When I was twelve, Sammy was eight, I got picked, and my father volunteered for me. He was the twenty-first to die; almost won the damned thing. We'd be freakin' legends by now. He used to be a coal miner, before my mother passed away from Sammy. Birth complications, all that jazz. After mom died, he just stayed home. Me and my brother had to fend for ourselves, y'know? It was hard, I'll give you that, but we never gave up on eachother, never. My father gave up on Sammy, and he was heartbroken about it, but he never gave up on me. I was always the perfect little soldier, and Sam was always the disobedient child, as my dad would say. He almost hated Sammy, because he acted too much like Mary, our mother.  
  
  


Ever since Mary died, my father just shut down. He would just lie in bed, emotionless, while me or Sammy was sick as a dog. I was normally the one to take care of the house, and Sam would try and get dad out of bed. He would always be the one to milk the goats and cows, sheer the sheep, collect the eggs from the chicken, and sometimes, even slotter the animals that were needed to be killed for some sort of protein. That's the only thing my dad would get up for – food. Well, there is one more thing. The reaping, which was today, April 29th.  
  
  


My name is Dean Winchester, and I live in District Twelve.

 


	2. Jo

“Dean, can you help me a second?” My little brother asked in his innocent tone, as if he was a child again. His voice was always higher than mine. Yes, I wanted to help him, but I knew I had to meet up with Jo in the woods. He didn't know what I did, at the time, because it would ruin him. It's extremely hard to explain, but I hunt ghosts, demons, and all those sonsabitches. I'll come back with scars all over my face, arms, and legs, but they've learned not to question it. Both my brother and father didn't know about it whatsoever. I hid it from them for over twelve years. The worst were the possessed people. They made so much noise, man, I could'a sworn that Sammy heard me once.  
  
  


“Not now, Sammy,” I replied in a more quiet tone than normal. I knew he hated the nickname, and I just loved to piss him off.  
  
  


“It's Sam,” he gritted between his teeth, then chuckled softly as I burst out into joyful laughter, seeing that it really did annoy him this time. In comforting times, he didn't mind the nickname. I personally adore it, it captures his personality. Sweet and soft, with a rugged edge. The laughter then turned to silence, when we both realized what day it was – The Reaping.   
  
  


“Well,” Sam spoke in a rough tone, “damn. It came quickly this year. Today isn't just The Reaping, y'know...” His voice trailed off, and I knew exactly what he meant. “It's the tenth anniversary of dad's death.” Our voices came to a halt as we both knew what this meant. This should be a day of mourning for us, but no. We had to be at that damn Reaping. The year that dad died, they did the Supernatural Games earlier in the year. They Reaped March 16th, trained for two weeks, and threw them into that ring for three weeks.   
  
  


At this point, Jo would be getting anxious for my saftey, and wonder where the hell I was. “Sam, I've gotta head out. Last minute preperations, 'ya know, the essentials.”  
  
  


“I get it. Go ahead, just make sure to be back by The Reaping. You know the penalty for not being there is -”  
  
  


“Death. I know. I've got the memo. I'll catch you later, Sammy.”  
  
  


As I ran off, I could'a sworn I heard with a loud chuckle, “It's Sam, you damn idiot!” I just laughed as I heard the scream.  
  
  


  
  


* * *

  
  


  
  


“Jo!” I called out in the forest as I equipped my crossbow on my back, holy water in my backpack pocket, and a new iron dagger in my calloused hands. “Joanna...!” I screamed and began to grow worried for the blonde, which I called my lover. Hearing footsteps which seemed larger than her own, I quickly grabbed a bolt out of my quiver, and equipped my crossbow into my hands. In a moment of silence, where nothing was heard, except the birds who sang, I caressed my bow, which my father carved out for me as a child. The initials were still in the bow, _'D.W.'_ My father had carved my initials into the bow, to let Sam know it was mine. He was always jealous of it, but my father had forged an iron dagger for my brother with his initials in it as well. It was one of the last things he did before he passed.   
  
  


Suddenly, a blonde had popped out of the bushes. Her hair flowed in the wind, and newly created pale green leaves blew past her. She was dressed in deep brown jeans that reached to her ankles, larger boots, which is why I had thought it was somebody else, a black tang-top, and a leather jacket. She grinned as she saw my face, and I did the same to her.   
  
  


“Oh god, Jo, I was so worried,” I whimpered as if I was a child again. I hugged her gently as I kissed her cheek, and she did the same to me.   
  
  


“I know, I was too,” she replied gently and began to kiss me softly, like she always did. Her lips were so incredibly gentle and sweet, and almost always tasted like strawberries do, like this time. She's been my best friend ever since kindergarden, and she'll stay that way forever, until the day we die. Well, with The Reaping, that might even be sometime in the next month. As she pulled away from locking lips, she grinned even wider.  
  
  


“Hey, did you bring the Holy Water?” She asked in her innocent tone. Hah, funny, all the people I'm close to are as innocent as a newborn kitten. I nodded in response and showed her the water. “Good, I think I'm onto a possessed woman. Thirty four years old, two kids. She's been missing for... What is it... Three months now? I'm onto her trail. Got excorsism book?”  
  
  


“Yeah, when don't I? It's dad's journal, and you know I would never leave that, unless it was with Sammy.”  
  
  


“That's true,” she admitted. “It's like a security blanket for you.”  
  
  


“Yeah yeah, I don't need no blanket or some shit,” I replied in a snarky tone, which I regretted the tone afterwards after her expression turned to hurt. “I'm sorry Jo,” I apologized, “'didn't mean to hurt you...”  
  
  


“Nah, it's fine,” she replied in a soft tone, like she always did. I honestly didn't understand how someone so sweet and kind could become a hunter, like me. See, I'm a blunt person, but she's extremely sensitive and nice... It didn't add up. Well, I suppose it did, since her sister was possessed, and her mom ran away to another district, which we don't know where the hell she is, and her dad died in the ring. She'll spend days in the district, then in the forest. No one really gives a damn though, because no one really knows about her and her backstory.   
  
  


Swiftly, I kissed her cheek with my rough, chapped lips, and her pale cheeks turned to a pink blush colour. “We good now?” I asked sweetly, which was an odd tone for me; it sat oddly in my mouth. But, it payed off, because she nodded and grinned. Suddenly, a large shadow cast over us, and we both had no idea how to react at first. “Get into a bush!” I ordered as I pushed her into one, and I practically dove into the same one. One of the crossbow bolts was left behind, and I prayed to God (if there even is one,) that the Peacekeepers wouldn't see it. Thankfully, their ship wasn't close enough to see the bolt, and I let out a sigh of relief.   
  
  


“We should really get back, it's going to start soon,” Jo spoke in a worried tone. I nodded in response as we took off to that damned Reaping.   
  
  


  
  


  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


  
  


  
  


As I approached our little shack of a home, I chose out my Reaping clothes which I wore every year that I could stretch and fit into them. Thank God I still fit into them this year, since the only other clothes that I could'a worn were my father's, and I really did not want to bring back those horrible memories. My Reaping outfit was made of khaki trousers that were still a bit loose on my thin legs from running, a light blue dress shirt, equipped with one hole on the arm, but I couldn't control that – I can't sew. Maybe Sammy could'a fixed it, but I don't exactly know if he knows how to sew either. Besides the point, I did have to wear something of my father's. A white tie that he wore to my mother's funeral. I kept my hair as it was before – spiked up. I also did nothing to trim my little stubble on my face.   
  
  


“Sammy? You ready yet?” I asked in a quieter tone than normal, to be curtious of the specific day.   
  
  


“Yeah, Dean. Also, it's Sam, jerk.” He was in his black dress pants, which my father wore, his white dress shirt, and his hair was in a ponytail, which it could always be put in. He wanted to look less feminine, which he tried to accomplish with the ponytail, but it didn't exactly work. He still looked like a girl.

 


End file.
